


The Season of Snows and Sins

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, F/M, Gen, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-03-16
Updated: 1999-03-16
Packaged: 2018-11-10 17:43:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11131698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Tired of Fraser's uncommunicativeness with respect to feelings, Meg decides to teach him a lesson he won't soon forget. This story is a sequel toShowdown in Chicago.





	The Season of Snows and Sins

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

The Season of Snows and Sins 

**M/F, Drama, Rated NC-17.** After my story, "Showdown  
in Chicago" appeared, Katherine Fox expressed concern about Inspector  
Meg Thatcher during the events that transpired. What was she thinking  
and feeling while Fraser--her colleague during working hours, her Significant  
Other in their private life--was behaving uncharacteristically and refusing  
to explain his breaches of conduct? France Cartier, on the other hand,  
wondered how Fraser really felt about Meg, as opposed to how he felt  
about Victoria. Would Fraser ever be able to turn his back on that  
dark winter of his life--a past that still threatened him with ruin--and  
look forward to a bright new season with Meg?

For all the Megamaniacs (and our numbers are growing!) out there in DS fandom, this is for you, and you, and you. 

* * *

_For winter's rains and ruins are over,_  
And all the season of snows and sins;  
The days dividing lover and lover,  
The light that loses, the night that wins;  
And time remembered is grief forgotten  
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,  
And in green underwood and cover   
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.  


From the _Chorus of the Prelude to Atalanta in Calydon,_ by A. C. Swinburne   


# The Season of Snows and Sins

## by Diana Read

* * *

It was still evening, the evening of the day that Victoria Metcalf had been captured at last and was safely locked up in a Chicago jail until her arraignment on a multiplicity of charges, past and present. 

Inspector Margaret Thatcher, Royal Canadian Mounted Police Liaison Officer at the Canadian Consulate in Chicago, studied her deputy liaison officer, Constable Benton Fraser, as he turned a jade figurine over and over in his hands. Okay, so she'd saved his life today. Victoria would certainly have succeeded in killing him if Meg had not been a minute ahead of her. Now what? 

He was alive, sitting here in front of her, putting off the moment when he knew he'd have to look up and read the expression on her face. Fraser, so brave when it was a question of facing personal danger, so afraid when it was a question of confronting his own emotions--or anyone else's. Fraser, her subordinate during the week, her lover in the private life they lived on weekends, away from the curious eyes of their office colleagues. Was now the time to deal with the feelings she'd bottled up during the tracking and subsequent capture of Victoria Metcalf, Fraser's sometime love? 

But was Victoria indeed a "sometime" love--or the love of his life still? From beginning to end of the whole affair--which was to say, from last Thursday morning until now, at seven o'clock on a fine September Saturday--Meg had been living on the edge. 

Flashes from the past three days came to her: 

_The first indication that trouble was brewing was that Constable Fraser arrived two hours late for work. If it had been anyone else--her secretary, Arnold Ovitz, for example, or Constable Cooper, or even Constable Turnbull--Meg would have been displeased, but not worried. But Fraser--Fraser was **never** late. _

"Would you like to explain your tardiness this morning, Constable?" 

"I' m sorry, sir. I have no excuse." 

That had been the beginning of it all. 

_The next morning Constable Turnbull, looking aghast, came to report that Fraser had deserted his post outside the Consulate._

When he returned, she'd had no choice but to be severe. _"Constable Fraser, I **cannot** ignore this behavior. Give me one good reason why I should not suspend you from duty for a day without pay." _

He stood to attention, outwardly respectful, but wearing the fathomless look that meant she wasn't going to get anything out of him. "Sir, I know you're required to act according to regulations. I'll comply with whatever disciplinary measures you see fit to impose." 

"Damn!" Meg pushed back from her desk, got up, and went to shut her office door. Then she turned to face him, arms folded. "All right. Let's stop being official for a moment. Ben, what the hell is wrong with you? I think I know you well enough to realize that something is seriously amiss. You don't behave like this!" 

He looked at her, lips parted as if he were about to confide in her, but then he shook his head. "I'm sorry--although I know it's not enough simply to apologize. I couldn't help myself." 

Recalling how enraged she'd been at Fraser last Friday morning, she felt fury possessing her now. Yes, she was furious with Fraser for not telling her what was going on. She'd had to go on the clues he dropped unconsciously: a silence here, a blush there, uncharacteristic lateness, uncharacteristic dereliction of duty. And all the while, even as her first-rate field officer skills came once more into play when she'd tailed him, she'd fumed at his intransigence even as she fretted over his lack of trust in her. Why wasn't Fraser telling her the truth? Was it because he had something to hide? 

And if so, what was it? Was it that Victoria, his old love, was back in town and he wanted to go to her? He'd have to throw away his whole life, his career, everything he was, to join forces with Victoria. Was Fraser, the man for whom she'd risked her career in order to admit him to her private life as her lover, the man with whom she'd slept skin to skin in the blessed aftermath of sexual communion, ready to abandon her forthwith? 

Fraser, at last, raised his eyes to look into hers. 

"What do you want to do now?" she asked. 

He considered for a moment, then glanced at her with a hopeful expression. "Let's get some carryout food and go to your apartment." 

"Sounds like a plan." If her tone was somewhat cool, he didn't seem to notice. 

Three-quarters of an hour later they were sitting at the dining room table in Meg's apartment, picking at the chicken pot pies Fraser had bought on the way. Normally, Meg liked these pies from Chicken Little, but tonight the crust tasted like sawdust and the sauce, despite the subtle aroma of basil and the rich flavors of sherry and cream, might just as well have been glue. Sick at heart, she pushed her fork through the vegetables and chicken, then gave up the pretense. 

"More tea, Ben?" 

"No, thank you. I'll clear these away if you want to go stretch out on the sofa." 

"Thanks." 

Meg wandered into her living room and immediately noticed that the VCR had been in use. Then she remembered: in his statement to the police this afternoon, Ben had mentioned coming over here to watch the tape Victoria left in his apartment. She called out to him as he moved about in the small kitchen. "Ben, did you take the tape out of the VCR?" 

He appeared immediately. "No. Better not touch it, it'll be needed as evidence. I'll get something, be right back." 

A minute later he returned with a pair of plastic gloves and a reclosable plastic storage bag. "I'll get the tape out." 

"What's on it?" 

"Victoria," he said, not looking at her as he drew the gloves onto his hands. He popped the videotape out of the VCR, dropped it into the plastic bag, and sealed it. "I'll call the police station to tell them we have it." 

"Fraser, why don't you want me to watch that tape?" 

"I never said I didn't want you to watch it. Here." He handed the bag to her, but he looked unhappy. 

"Never mind. Go make your call." 

This was another example of how he'd shut her out. Meg ground her teeth. As recently as a week ago, everything had been as good as it _could_ be: they'd gone roller blading in Grant Park in the afternoon, then picked up a pizza and rented a movie on the way back to her place. Later, they'd made love and he had spent the night with her again. A week ago, his hands hadn't been caressing an Olmec figurine, they'd been caressing her. A week ago he hadn't been averting his gaze from her when he spoke. And a week ago she'd thought she had his love--as certainly, as completely, as he had hers. 

Ben turned to her as he hung up the telephone. "They want me to drop it off there tomorrow. There's no rush." 

"Fine." 

She saw his face change. He was smart enough to know that things were far from fine. He moved swiftly until he was standing in front of her, evidently intending to take her into his arms, but she drew back. 

"Margaret, what's wrong?" 

"I'm just thinking about the difference between us. I trusted you enough to give you a key to my apartment. You came here, you watched that video, you left to go to Victoria. But you didn't trust me enough to tell me what was going on." 

"I didn't want to hurt you." 

"Hurt me? Me, Fraser? I thought Victoria was only a threat to your physical well-being. If she'd killed you, _that_ would have hurt me. Or are you saying that you knew you'd hurt me if you realized that you were still in love with her and not with me?" 

His face went pale. "You can't think that!" 

"Why not? What would you have thought if you were me, Ben? All that secrecy, that refusal to let me know what was going on--when two people love each other, there are no secrets between them. They share everything, the good, the bad, the indifferent." 

He pushed his lower lip up and out, in a pout that ordinarily had the effect of making her want to jump his bones, but which she now resolutely ignored. Again, his eyes slid away from hers. "It's very hard for me to talk about this kind of thing," he said at last. "I'm not in the habit of discussing my innermost feelings about private matters." 

"For God's sake, Benton!" She knew she was shouting, but she couldn't help it. He was so exasperating she wanted to shake him senseless. "If you don't discuss them with your lover, who would you discuss them with? Your wolf?" 

Judging from the guilty look on his face, and the blush that was creeping up from the collar of his shirt, she'd hit home with that one. Once more she was reminded of the fact that her lover was no ordinary man. "I see. Well, you're just going to have to get in the habit of discussing your 'innermost feelings' with someone who can answer you--in English, I might add." 

"I'm sorry. It's just that I was brought up to keep certain things to myself. There are things we simply never discussed with outsiders, and some things we didn't even discuss in our family circle." 

"I agree that keeping quiet about one's private affairs is a most admirable quality. But I _am_ your private life, Ben! That stiff upper lip business may have been the style in your family, but it isn't in mine. And if our relationship should continue to its logical conclusion, one day, I have no intention of subjecting myself and our children to the kind of dysfunctional family life you had." 

He looked hurt. "I never thought of it as dysfunctional." 

She regretted the necessity for being so harsh, but if she couldn't make him understand what trust between lovers involved, their relationship was doomed. "But it was, Ben, don't you see? Normal families stay together--normal parents stay with their children. Of course it wasn't your fault your mother died, but your father could have asked for a posting that would have kept him at your side. You needed him just as much as that great, faceless public out there." 

"Margaret, please!" 

He only called her Margaret when he was afraid of making her angry. Once more he approached her, and this time he did take her in his arms. She could feel his heart beating strongly; on another day, in another mood, she would have been sinking into his solid frame like hot, sweet custard into a jam roll. But now, with his mouth a bare inch away from her own, she asked, "Who are you about to kiss, Ben? Me or Victoria?" 

"You." He brushed his lips against hers. "Look, Meg, try to understand. Victoria was the first woman I ever fell in love with. You're the second. With Victoria, circumstance parted us when we had barely begun to know each other. I always felt guilty for persuading her to turn herself in: if I had known she was going to get ten years without parole, I might not have. I was obsessed with her for years. I thought she was the only woman I'd ever be able to love, that it was her or nothing. And when she came back, a year ago...I felt I had to follow when she beckoned." 

Fraser swallowed and looked away for a moment. "And then, three days ago when she appeared again...well, you've heard of Pavlov. My reaction to her was Pavlovian: she appeared, I salivated. I just couldn't help it. When you think you're in love with someone, your reaction to them becomes fixed, and it's very hard to break that habit. When they appear, or do something, you respond. Does this make any sense at all?" 

"Yes, it does. Go on." 

"I don't love her any more, if that's what you're worried about. She's out of my system for good. How could I love someone who would have killed me without turning a hair? When I met her I was young and inexperienced. I'm certainly not that way now." 

"All right." She drew a deep breath. "I believe you. Are you ever going to do this to me again?" 

"Of course not. There won't be a next time." He was nuzzling her ear now. "Do you suppose," he said, in a voice she could tell was deliberately restrained, "that we could put this subject to bed? And then, possibly, go to bed ourselves?" 

Men. She would never to her dying day understand the way their minds worked. They really, really expected women to go from zero to sixty in ten seconds. After a heavy scene like the one they'd just had, he was ready for sex? 

The problem was, she just wasn't in the mood. That he could get her in the mood, she didn't doubt: he understood how to play her, and could do it even better than he played the guitar. But she still felt wounded by his lack of communication during the past few days. If only he could know what she had gone through: the agony, the fear of betrayal. If only he could be subjected to the same emotional torture she'd experienced at his hands. 

Well, why not. Tilting her head to look up at him, she said, "M'mmm...you know what I'd really like?" 

"What's that, love?" He'd undone the top button of her shirt by now, and was licking the little hollow at the base of her throat. 

"Let's go into the bedroom, and then...I'd like you to..." 

He opened his eyes at that. "Like me to what?" 

She smiled. "Strip. Do a striptease. I think, yes, I think that would really make me...you know..." 

"Whatever you want." Clearly, he wasn't going to argue with anything she suggested, not tonight. 

All the better. 

* * * * * * * * * * *  


In the bedroom, she said, "Wait. Before you begin, I need to...." 

Quickly, she slid open the door of her closet, hid what she needed in the pocket of her dressing-gown, and disappeared into the adjoining bathroom. When she emerged, he was leaning against one of the posters of the large, canopied bed--the one luxury she'd allowed herself--that stood in the center of her bedroom. She eyed him while tying the belt of the dressing-gown. 

"Oh," he said. "I thought you'd be returning the favor. Am I the only one stripping, then?" 

"Later." She threw him a look from under her eyelashes, saw him smile. Fraser began undoing the buttons on his red plaid shirt. 

"There should be music," he said. 

"You're right, there should." She crossed the room, put a disc on the CD player that stood on the night stand next to the bed, and turned back to him as the sounds of the Scheherazade Suite filled the room. 

She watched as he unbuttoned his shirt, lifted it out of his jeans, shrugged it off to reveal his shoulders and chest in the white tank-top undershirt. Meg's lips parted: no matter how many times she looked at him, his beauty never failed to move her. It was that same beauty that had prejudiced her against him at the beginning of their working relationship, when she'd taken the transfer to Chicago to escape the thoroughly unpleasant situation in Ottawa. When Fraser presented himself for her inspection, following his three-month leave of absence for temporary disability, she'd thought, "They didn't tell me he was going to look like Prince Charming." Her immediate reaction had been one of distrust: she'd never met a man that good-looking who wasn't also tiresomely conceited. And she would not, would _not_ become one more in a row of toppling dominoes, like the other women in the Consulate. She could see how all the women, from sweeper to secretary to trade officer, reacted to him. 

Still keeping his eyes on her face, Fraser unbuckled the belt of his jeans, slid the jeans down his hips, past his knees, and stepped out of them. 

Meg drew a deep breath: in another minute or two it would be time to make her move. 

Now he was taking off his socks. Next, he raised his arms to take off his undershirt. 

She came closer, drinking in the sight of him, that perfection of line, the mass of muscle beneath his skin. His wavy brown hair, ruffled from pulling off the undershirt, gleamed in the light of the bedside lamp. 

"Let me," she said, pulling at the elastic waistband of his boxer shorts, sliding them down his long legs, until he kicked them aside. He was magnificent, a Greek god in warm, living skin instead of cold marble: below his waist, soft brown pubic hair curled around a shaft that was smooth and--most unusually in this day and age--uncut; beneath it, his balls looked invitingly full and heavy. 

His gaze held hers; he was probably a little uncomfortable under her scrutiny. Already she could see the blush beginning to rise to his cheeks. Always, during their lovemaking, she enjoyed watching the ice melt away from her Ice Prince: delighted in seeing the smooth alabaster of his chest take on the rosy flush of passion, and the remote expression in his blue eyes give way to a hot glint, like the waters of a cold, clean Northern lake heating under the suns of August. 

There had been times, before they became lovers three months ago, when she'd asked herself why she wanted this man. Why did she want to risk losing her position, in fact the whole career she'd carefully built up over the years, for him? For if anyone were to suspect the truth of their relationship, and extrapolate from that fact that she was treating Fraser more favorably than her other subordinates, she had no doubt they'd both be fired. 

He'd driven her crazy in the beginning, to the point where she prayed every day that he would ask for a transfer back to Canada. And then, gradually, she had come to see that with Fraser, what she saw was what she got. He really _was_ as good as he looked. But it wasn't just his looks that had captured the heart that few suspected she even owned. It was that sweetness in him, like a well of cool, pure water: it was knowing that however tarnished the world outside her door became, Fraser's goodness was one thing she could rely on. This was a man who could come face to face with the worst that society had to offer and yet retain his belief in the basic decency of humankind. 

Leaning forward, she nuzzled his warm cheek, still smooth even at this late hour, smelling the combination of scents she had come to associate with him: harsh RCMP-issue soap, a hint of Old Spice. Tonight there was also a faint, lingering aroma of the pie he'd just eaten. She pressed her body against his, her mouth against his mouth. His lips were warm and firm, tasting a little of the sweet camomile tea he'd drunk. She felt the stirring of his cock against her even as she bent back first his right arm, then his left behind the post he was leaning against and snapped the handcuffs in place behind him. 

He said nothing but his eyes flew open. She raised her eyebrows as if to say, _Surprised? You'll be that and more in the next few minutes._

Then he found his voice. "Meg!" 

But it was part of her plan not to speak, so she shook her head. She stood on tiptoe, wrapping her arms around him, kissing him until his lips parted to allow her tongue inside his mouth. She moved her hands over his body, enjoying the bigness of it, the warmth of his skin, the hard contours so different from her own. When she reached down to caress his cock, she felt it hardening in her hand. He groaned, unable to speak with her mouth still covering his, and wriggled. 

Meg considered. Yes, it was probably time to pick up the pace a bit. She shrugged out of the silk dressing-gown to stand before Fraser wearing only a pair of black lace briefs. 

Swiftly, she dropped to her knees, parting the nest of soft chestnut curls on his groin to take his balls in her hand. The rhythm of his breathing quickened, the sound of it becoming louder. 

She began to lick each testicle, teasing the delicate surface skin with her tongue, giving little sucks here and there. She didn't know why, but the skin around his groin always tasted yeasty, like new bread. Delicious. Fraser moaned. "Aaahhh!" 

_Just wait, my man, this isn't the end of it._ It was time to direct her attentions elsewhere. His cock, fully erect now, strained upward, the foreskin retracted to reveal the smooth head, now dark with engorgement. She began to lick the underside of the head, as slowly, as thoughtfully, as if it were a new kind of edible. 

He was writhing now, eyes closed, lips parted in a lingering moan. "Oh, God, oh God, oh, what are you doing, my love, oh God..." 

Looking up, she could see that his beautiful lips were pink with the hot blood running up beneath his skin. She could see the dark, enticing cavern of his mouth, open because of the moans she was tearing from him with her teasing. She continued to lick and suck until she could taste pre-cum--thin, slick, a little salty. Now his movements were becoming frantic. "Aah, aah! Meg, please! Please!" 

She ceased her ministrations, rose to her feet and leaned forward to tease his chest with the touch of her nipples. Looking into his pleading eyes, she decided that she might be well advised to stop the torture at this point. "Please what, Ben?" 

"Please, Meg." His eyes closed. She could see a faint sheen of sweat on his face. Heavens, he was beautiful, a god in pain, moaning with need and desire. 

"Tell me what you want." 

She dropped to her knees again, the better to assess his condition: he was still hard, oozing pre-cum. She licked again and he jerked wildly. 

"Anything, anything at all, but _do_ something!" 

"Patience," she said in a reproving tone, and got to her feet again. She reached around him to unlock the cuffs, watched as he brought his arms forward and shook them to get rid of the stiffness. Meg pushed him backward on to the bed, pulled off her briefs, and straddled him, resting her weight on her knees. Looking into his eyes was like looking into the warm blue depths of a tropical lagoon: he was heated, flushed as a summer sunrise, throbbing-hard and ready. 

So was she: in fact, every nerve in her body was screaming for her to take him into her. While tormenting Ben she had felt herself grow wet, aching with an ache that could only be assuaged by having his hard, hot, huge length inside her. She enveloped him, taking him hard and fast, until at last he came with a shout and a long, convulsive shudder. She felt the contractions of orgasm starting deep inside her and then she came too, moaning, "Oh, love! Oh, my love!" before collapsing on top of his sweat-slick chest. 

Meg found the little patch of skin she especially liked, between the end of his jawbone and his ear, and nuzzled it. She felt spent and at peace. 

After a long silence he spoke in his usual deep tones, unhurried and unemotional. "What was that about, Meg?" 

"It was about getting even. Now do you know how it feels to have someone behaving inexplicably, and refusing to talk? Now do you know how it feels to be shut out?" 

"Yes." He lifted one hand to stroke her hair. "Now I know." In the lamplight his expression was serious. Then he smiled, and the tenderness on his face made her almost regret that she'd had to resort to such drastic measures to teach him a lesson. 

"And are you ever going to do that to me again?" She shifted her position to look at him. Was he secretly angry with her? Had she alienated him forever by her revenge? But no, with Ben what you saw was what you got. He was not one to bear malice. 

"Never," he said. He hooked one arm around her neck, drawing her head down to kiss her. "Never, my love." 

Reassured, Meg returned his kiss, then laid her head on his chest and closed her eyes. Into her mind, seemingly of their own volition, came half-remembered words from the Song of Songs: 

_For lo, the winter is past,_  
The rain is over and gone;  
The flowers appear on the earth;  
he time of the singing of birds is come   
And the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.  


She and Ben had negotiated this passage safely: truly, the winter of Ben's thralldom to Victoria was past, and it was time to look forward to a bright new season. 

**The End**

* * *

*Copyright April 1997 by Diana M. Read on all original story content. Not meant to infringe on copyrights held by Alliance Communications, or any other copyright holders for DUE SOUTH. Please do not reproduce for anything other than personal reading use without written consent of the author. Comments welcome at. 

* * *


End file.
